Sorry Professor, You Said You Are WHAT?

Chapter 3.

KATHLEEN'S P.O.V.

Art held different meaning to different people; to some, it was just some random hobby to while away time; to others, it was a means of earning a living; and to a few others, it held deep-rooted meaning to them. It was an important piece in their life; just like your significant other, it provided an escape from reality, and that was it for me. I was among the few who held art in deep affection; it was a haven of escape to me. A passion passes down to me from my late mother. It made me feel closer to her whenever I missed her, made me feel her presence, which I always appreciated. Art provided me with an escape whenever I felt overwhelmed with reality, and once again I had found myself running back to my haven.

Sitting in an outdoor café, I made a mother and her child my muse as I drew them, trying to express the tiniest details on my notepad as I listened to the soft music playing in my ear, which emitted from my ear pod. Humming according to the tune, my pencil glided across my notepad as I lost myself in the drawing. Feeling parched, I reach for my mug only to find it had disappeared from the spot where I had kept it. Glancing up momentarily, I was startled to find a pair of hazel eyes staring at me with a hint of amusement swirling within his orbs.

"My apologies if I frightened you." Came his apology, a strong hint of Italian accent seeping out. Seated before me was my lecturer, Professor Dawson.

"No, it's fine. I must have been lost to not have noticed you seated there. How long have you been here, if I may ask?" He didn't reply for a few seconds, and I feared I might have spoken out of proportion. Luckily for me, he answered a moment later.

"Not very long, but long enough to know that you were very much unaware of your surroundings, Miss Ramirez." My eyes widened slightly at his words.

"You know my name." I sputtered nervously, to which I could've sworn I saw a ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

"Of course, it'd be unprofessional of me to not know the names of the students I teach." Fair enough, but did that mean all lecturers knew the names of their students? I would hardly think so. Glancing towards the direction of my muse, I see that the mother and child were no longer there, to which I internally sighed, shame. Deciding there was no point in being here any longer, especially in his presence, I began packing up my things.

"Leaving already?" I hear him ask lowly, and my gaze diverts to look at him, and I swear I felt the chills. His gaze was piercing, his aura intimidating, and it commanded respect and fear. He felt so different from other lecturers I had met. Perhaps it's because he's so young, although I wonder how young he was for him to be able to become a lecturer.

I watched as he raised a brow in question, expecting a reply, "Uh, yeah, I should go. I have some things I need to attend to at home."

I find myself struggling to find words that were not totally true. But how was I supposed to tell him that I just wanted to be away from him? He hummed in response, and I was pretty sure he didn't believe a word I said.

Rising to my feet while carrying my bag, I clutched my sketchpad tightly as I offered him a tight-lipped smile.

"Well, uh, I gotta go. I guess I'll see you some other time, Teach." As the words escaped me, I felt embarrassment course through me. Seriously? That was the best I could come up with. He seemed to understand my situation as he let out a chuckle.

"Can I see your drawing?" My brows furrow at his words, not entirely sure I had heard him correctly.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Your drawing, can I see it?" He pointed towards my sketchpad for good measure. Glancing hesitantly between him and my sketchpad, I debated whether or not I should give it to him. I hardly ever showed people my work, mainly because I was insecure about it, but also because it felt personal to me. My hesitance must have been written all over me as he spoke once more.

"I understand if you feel reluctant to, and I apologize if my request went overboard, but I have a feeling you're a really good artist." His words were kind, making me feel better about my art, which was enough for me to sit my ass back as I handed him my sketchpad. Watching nervously as he flipped through the pages, I couldn't help but study his features. His jet-black hair was trimmed lowly and combed neatly, his gold necklace and gold stud earring on his left ear shone brightly as they reflected the sun, and his white tee shirt fit him perfectly with the first button undone. His lips were the perfect shade of pink, bordering on red. His facial hair trimmed to perfection as his fingers caressed his jaw lightly. Studying him up close, I could see the faintest hint of amber, or was it gray, flecks in his irises, or perhaps that was just my imagination.

"You're staring." There it was, that deep masculine voice that could get any woman to swoon, and it wasn't as if I had a crush on him or anything of that sort; I was just stating obvious facts.

Looking away, I feel the heat in my cheeks as I feel the embarrassment overwhelm me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was just—" I ramble, struggling to find the words to excuse my behavior.

"It's alright, Miss Ramirez," I hear him close the book and watch from the corners of my eyes as he slid it over to me, "I don't bite." I could have sworn he was teasing, but perhaps I was just hearing things.

"You have a talent. You're an excellent artist." Upon hearing his compliment, I look up at him to find him staring at him.

"Thank you, Sir, but I'm sure it's not all that great." I smile softly in appreciation.

"No need to thank me; I just stated the obvious. I myself indulge myself in art from time to time." He reveals. Professor Dawson and art? I would never have imagined.

"Oh, well, uh, I'm sure your works are far better than mine." I chuckle nervously, needing to find an excuse to be away from him that very instant.

Raising a brow in question, he interlaced his fingers as he drew forward, "Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?" Not very sure how to answer, I remain silent for a moment trying to come up with a reply when my phone rings. Excusing myself, I fished out my phone to see my father calling, and in that very moment, I thanked the heavens for him.

"I'm sorry, I really need to go."

"Of course, it was a pleasure speaking to you, Miss Ramirez."

"Same professor," I reply, getting on my feet, but just before I left, he called out to me.

"Miss Ramirez, would you perhaps like to take a look at my artwork sometime?"